The Night Shift
by Wai-Jing Waraugh
Summary: Is it the Weevils that are misbehaving in the Torchwood base after hours, or something - someone - else? Ianto and Jack will find out. Janto one-shot fluff, my first attempt at slash


**The Night Shift**

Janto one-shot fluff - my first attempt at slash fiction :)

Alternates between Jack's and Ianto's points of view

Enjoy

* * *

Out of nowhere, a shiver runs up my spine. I freeze, and as a cold hand of panic seems to grasp hold of my slow-reacting brain, a similar hand clutches my side, intrusive fingers slivering over the contours between my ribs and up to securely clinch my torso just below the collarbone. It's not painful, but uncomfortably firm, and its suddenness unnerves me.

My mind is strangely vague, an occupational hazard for me and a rather rare occurrence. I struggle with my unresponsive gray cells; I remember I was doing the rounds at the end of the day, and I'd just come from the holding pens where the Weevils are housed… I recall, as I do daily, that their murderous eyes followed me through the glass walls as though they recognized me as one of their captors…

It's a few moments after this unseen hand clamps down on me that the sensation starts, just above that vice-like hold; a slow, slithering feeling descends down my neck, heading for my breastbone. It's warm, slightly clammy; something slides over my shoulder that feels unmistakable like skin, and it is followed by a tickle of hot breath. It abates, only to be replaced by a scrape from something hard that is undeniably a set of teeth. At the same time, those strong digits begin to knead my flesh with minute, massaging caresses. I feel like a cut of meat, being tenderized and savoured at the same time.

My head is still slightly foggy, but strangely calm. Trying to ignore the nuzzling at my neck, I raise my voice, doing my best to sound composed and decisive, though that is far from what I feel. My voice cracks only slightly as I manage to utter his name:

_"Jack…"_

* * *

He wakes up slowly. As soon as I touched him he stirred; those lovely lashes fluttered, revealing those pretty eyes that have given me that piercingly intense Welsh stare many a time over the top of some miscellaneous bit of alien technology. The way they flicker gradually beneath their lids, almost teasingly revealing themselves, makes my breath catch and just about stay in my chest – being an undead man, that wouldn't bother me, except that at the same time my heart starts to romp about so forcefully that I think of the heightened risk of heart attack that comes with old age.

He instantly knows I'm here, as if knowing is instinctive; I feel the tight muscles of his chest relax beneath my palm as he realizes it's me. My hand there, supporting his weight, is the only thing stopping him from falling out of his chair to do a face-plant on the steel-grille floor.

_"Jack…"_

My name comes out of him, soft and sweet on his breathe. It tickles my cheek as I lean over him. My lips tingle as the word actually reverberates in the pale throat beneath my mouth.

Oh, those beautiful Welsh tones…

He rights himself in his seat, and since I don't need to hold him up any more, I casually slip my hand down onto his hip. Well, I think the gesture is casual. It is casual compared to the gestures I'm picturing myself doing in my imagination. Ianto always did inspire the creative side of me.

"Christ, you startled me for a second there." He's still groggy, but his eyes have cleared; he's becoming the suave, cool and collected Ianto I know and love. I just love to stir the depths beneath that calm surface.

"It's what I live for. Whatcha up to?" I ask, leaning on the back of his chair. "Keeping the cups company by sleeping in the cupboard?"

He gives the coffee mugs a somewhat sleepy, contemptuous glance, as though they have just voiced his darkest secrets – not that there are any secrets about him that I can't easily find out – then slumps back in the chair with more nonchalantly grace than anyone else could muster. The back of his head rests lightly against my chest, dark curls of hair getting rumpled by their friction against my waistcoat.

"I was tidying up and sat down for a second; I must have nodded off."

"I'm not surprised really, with all that you do around this heap. I watched your svelte suit-clad back moving to and fro all day." The quip is off my lips before I've barely even thought it; a quip of the utmost affection.

He tilts his head back to look at me. Though upside-down, his eyes look directly up into mine. I love the combination of respect and rebellion I see there; I never did prefer the submissive types.

"That's nothing compared to the night-shift."

He's right. And I should know.

He looks so coquettish with a wry little grin twisting his mouth. Did my imagination just notch another gear, or did he just shift slightly in his seat, subtly nudging his hip against my hand that still rests there? I tell my senses not to doubt it, just go with it. Not that I need to encourage myself.

"True that, and it's time you clocked on. I don't pay you to sleep. On your feet, kiddo."

He smiles and complies, every crease in his gorgeous suit seeming to smooth itself as he straightens his frame out with its usual poise. Oh, I never saw a man who looked better in a suit. I've seen men in suits back in the times when men actually wore suits, but in all the roomfuls of suits I've seen over the years, I've never seen a suit worn as beautifully as this. The man beneath it makes all the difference. And the exquisite hand-done tailoring doesn't hurt either.

"Yessir," he replies with mock-military subservience. "The filing on my desk will be taken care of with the utmost efficiency."

As he does an about-face, I catch the sly look on his face. Then that slim black-clad back moves, purposefully but tauntingly slow, towards the door.

A faked retreat; a clever manoeuvre. Damn tricky Welsh bastard. I'll teach him more manoeuvres before the night is through.

"Not so fast, Torchwood agent."

He's moved so slowly, it only takes a few long strides across the room. I catch him by both hips this time. As I pull him back into the room he stops obediently, leaning back into me. Just where he wants me. And I'm damn well pleased to be there.

* * *

He catches me round the waist before I make the door. Just as I hoped he would.

"Start with the top priority assignments. Filing can wait. A rendezvous and reconnaissance mission with a field agent take precedence."

That brazen American twang seems to graze my cheek, along with the hot breath behind it. I'm under no illusions; I may have him where I want him, but he's firmly in control. I'm being gripped on both hips like a pair of guns in holsters. The comparison makes me feel reckless.

"Is that an order from a superior, sir?"

"Sure is, and I don't take kindly to _back_-chat."

On the word 'back' he suddenly pulls me forcibly backwards. So much happens at once - I feel the back of my leg press against his thigh, the thrill of the contact passing right through our clothes. At the same time a pair of lips lap playfully at my ear lobe as a hand softly – far too softly – traces the pleat in my trousers.

As much as I try to resent his authority, I can't bring myself to. It takes all my self control to reply, and when I do I realize I'm suddenly short of breath and my voice is unashamedly quavering.

"Be as kind or unkind as you like."

His reply, when it comes, is equally husky, buoying my sense of pride. "Oh, I intend to."

* * *

And oh, when I say it, do I ever mean it!

I start to peel off the layers. Trying to fight my impatience, trying to be appreciative of each flawless cut of couture. Every crease, fold and drape that accentuates the body I want to get at underneath. He stands quietly while I undress him, meek and unresponsive, letting me manipulate him. But I don't kid myself. He's got me serving him, and he damn well knows it!

As far as recon missions go, this one is better than most. My fingers never tire of doing the walking. I direct them to explore the shape of that taunt physique beneath the billows of his crisp linen shirt; I breathe along the contour of a bicep, inhaling the scent of his cologne; the tip of one finger briefly brushes the smoothness of his inner thigh as I nudge his pants aside, forcing myself not to lay my hands straight on him as they hit the floor. Keeping a close handle on my restraint, I wrap my arms around him from behind. He shivers slightly at the sensation of my – amazingly – still-clothed body rubbing against his bare skin. I relish the superiority of it, enjoying the feeling of his body's warmth seeping through my clothes. He's a few inches shorter than me, just the right height for me to rest my chin on his shoulder as I lean into him, retracing my former path of kisses down his neck.

Suddenly I hear a metallic jingle and something jerks at my side. I'm pulled forward sharply as Ianto turns to face me. He's somehow managed to wind his hand into the watch chain clipped to my vest. He holds my gaze for a moment; I have time to register the seductiveness of his look before he jerks the chain and I'm forced to bend slightly at the waist, falling forward into him as our mouths slot together. Those nimble fingers I so often see darting over a computer keyboard make light work of buttons; he's already attacking my shirt as my vest falls, chain jangling, to the floor like a set of shackles. He pushes insistently into my mouth with his tongue, and I lean back slightly, encouraging him to pursue me, enjoying his taking the initiative. It's then that I hear a clatter behind me and realized he has somehow backed me against a bench covered in mugs and crockery.

Damn tricky Welsh bastard.

* * *

He tries to lean away from me as I peel his shirt off. His vest has fallen to the floor, chain jangling, like a piece of discarded armour.

There's no swarmy, swaggering Captain Jack persona to hide behind here; he's pressed against a rack of coffee mugs and here's nowhere else he can go. I wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him into me, and as our pelvises shear against each other, he moans an unintelligible comment into my mouth, an utterance so far removed from his usual glib remarks that I can't help feeling smug. It's the raw, inarticulate moments like this that I savour. I pull back slightly, idly toying with his belt buckle, and when my fingers venture lower, gliding over him with the lightest of touches as payback for the line he traced down my thigh earlier, a shuddery breath escapes him that gratifies me no end.

He curls his hips, pushing himself into my hand, and his eyes point upwards as though he's praying, willing me to remove his trousers. I wait a whole twenty seconds before I comply. Once they're in a rumpled pile on the floor I pause a moment, just enjoying looking at him. Then I step into him. Every inch of contact seems to brand itself upon my skin. The taunt muscles at the top of his thighs are hard against mine; the jutting bulge of a bicep almost hurts me as it wraps tightly around my shoulders. In comparison, his mouth is soft, and as if to heighten the comparison a broad hand cups the back of my head almost tenderly, fingers curling themselves amongst my hair.

I slip an arm around his waist and lean further into him, feeling his back bend into my embrace. The bench and all its crockery makes a satisfying clatter.

* * *

I've been pressed up against a pair of jugs before, but this is ridiculous!

The rim of a mug is pressing into my back. The edge of the bench forces my hips forward as I bend at the waist, his torso leaning into mine. You couldn't slip two pound notes between him, me, and the wooden paneling.

The pheromones – a very useful gift of genetic evolution I took with me from the 51st century – are practically dripping off me now. He's slipped his arms round my waist. I love it when he does that. He's pulled me in tight to himself, like a needy child; or perhaps I'm the child, being comforted by the parent. God knows it feels like it sometimes. I've lived through so much, I'm constantly being cast as the stoic, indestructible leader of the brigade. But just when my nerves are jangling, I look up and he's standing beside my desk, as though he can hear it. He's always understood. He's always somehow just known.

Not that the signals I'm sending right now are all that subtle. Two mugs clang together as my elbow nudges them, reaching back to get a better stance against the cupboard, and I tilt my hips, imploring him. With the position he's got me in, I just hope that he's still compelled to take orders.

* * *

I know what he wants. Any command, any request and he'd trust me to carry it out. I was always the one entrusted with his needs, from coffee to cleaning his coat to fetching confidential files the others don't even know the existence of. I was always happy to provide, because I realized I had been given trust in the first place. And the trust itself was a more precious task than any errand he could ever give me. Except perhaps for saving the world.

Now I get the request loud and clear. My hand hits a coffee mug; it slides under my grasp and I push it aside to better brace myself against the bench top. His hips shift forward; so do mine, as glasses shiver and tinkle behind him. I thrust forward, repeating the sound. I bury my face in his chest, enjoying his unique smell, as his hands press into the small of my back. The rack of mugs shudders intermittently, clattering and providing a percussive soundtrack. Like the sound of drums as we beat together.

* * *

I've been entrapped and tortured before, but I've never been this damn happy about it. I'm just about in raptures.

I'll have ring marks on my back after this. The rims of half a dozen mugs are pommeling my flesh as I do an acrobatic back bend against the edge of the counter. Every time I'm pressed into it the whole thing shudders. I'm shuddering myself, and realize I should probably join in the symphony. The pace makes my breath come in audible pants. A sound like a whimper comes out of me, and I'm not ashamed of it. I grab hold of his shoulders to keep myself upright – a complete reversal of the position I first found him in – and do my best to smother the sounds coming out of me in his hair.

* * *

He's joined in with the crockery, making little noises into my hair. His breath almost scalds my eyes as he plants a kiss on my forehead. It's all the encouragement I need to keep up this feat of athleticism.

* * *

I wonder at his stamina. The rack of mugs is rocking like it's in an earthquake. I feel- …uh…

…

Make that an earthquake followed by a flood.

* * *

I can't move. I've collapsed against him, absolutely exhausted. He looks just as spent, lying sprawled amongst the coffee cups. Somehow, though, he realizes that my legs are now as weak as water; he hooks his arms under mine and hoists me on top of him, cradling me against his chest. Knocked over by his movements, several mugs overturn and roll off the bench to smash on the floor. Normally I'd care. At the moment, I couldn't care less. I rest my cheek against his hard pec, letting my gasping breaths wash over his glistening skin. His heart is doing a mad drum roll beneath my ear. It's keeping pace with my own.

He draws a large breath, causing me to rise and fall with his chest.

"I see now why you make such a great cup of coffee." The abominable humour is back, but the delivery isn't half as smooth; it rasps out between two great gasps. I raise my heard to look into his face. His eyes are half-closed as he looks down at me from beneath heavy lids. The little sideways twist of his wide mouth combined with that look – an appreciative, possessive, deeply lustful look – in his eyes makes his expression as he gazes at me a strange melding of irony and sincerity.

"Dark and unsweetened is the way I like it." He grasps my double meaning as I drag his head up by his hair and fasten myself onto his lips. If my coffee tastes anything to him like he does to me, it could very well be an elixir of life.

Still running his tongue over my lower lip, he manages to lever himself off the bench, hoisting me up with him. No longer pinned to the countertop, he makes a break for freedom; extricating his mouth from mine, he slips past me and nonchalantly starts to gather his clothes up off the floor, as though it is an activity he commonly practices.

"Back to work, agent."

"Yessir," I mutter, forcing myself not to watch the muscles of his back pull and contract as he bends over. Still feeling weak and slightly stung by the curtness of his dismissal after what we just shared, I likewise stoop for my suit jacket.

And I freeze, unable to move. With an uncanny speed and precision, he's wrapped his watch chain around my wrist, and is holding the other end with a possessive air.

"You're remanded in custody for mutiny. Let's take the interrogation someplace more comfortable; like the bed beneath my office."

He jerks the restraints and I obediently slip my body comfortably into his, sliding my bound arm around his waist, letting him hustle me out of the room. His free hand fastens on my shoulder, just as it did before, and he manages to nuzzle my neck again as he guides me along the corridor. His thigh deliberately grazing against mine with each step we take promises much for the action that is yet to come.

As I'm whisked through the main workspace, my eye glances over all the stacks of papers I should be docketing and case folders I should be filing, then continues on without seeing them, as though a perception barrier has come down between me and them. Once upon a time I would've relentlessly pursued my work, and only my work. Everything has changed. I found something here that is worth more to pursue.

Captain Jack and I get a lot done during the night shift. We now share a recreational pastime other than just chasing Weevils.


End file.
